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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29167095">A Stair of Swords</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janara/pseuds/Janara'>Janara</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach_art'>Mirach_art (Mirach)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Ancient Rome, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Communication, Community: Do It With Style Events, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, For a part, Happy Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Matter of Life and Death, Memories, Non-Explicit, Nonverbal Communication, Nothing graphic but it's there, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Pre-Golgotha, Pre-Relationship, and it's not soft, description of life-threatening medical condition (OC), fear of loss of friend to medical condition - resolved</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:22:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29167095</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janara/pseuds/Janara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach_art</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Just above our terror, the stars painted this story<br/>in perfect silver calligraphy. And our souls, too often<br/>abused by ignorance, covered our eyes with mercy.”<br/>Aberjhani, I Made My Boy Out of Poetry </i><br/><br/>*</p><p>After the Apocalypse that wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley are settling into their new life together.<br/>One day Aziraphale comes across a painting that brings up old memories.</p><p>*<br/>(Written for the DIWS RBB and inspired by Mirach's art showing Aziraphale and Crowley as the constellation  Ophiuchus and Serpens.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Hurt Aziraphale</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Stair of Swords</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the DIWS Reverse Bang. Tons of thanks to the mods for all your awesome work!</p><p>And extra thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327167/chapters/71456190">Mirach</a> whose incredibly stunning art inspired this fic. </p><p>As to the fic itself... I'm not sure what happened here? I was fully prepared to dive into Roman mythology and then this came to be. Which has nothing to do with mythology at all (beside a few nods at it) and is mostly developing relationship.<br/>I guess that happens when I'm given free rein. I hope Mirach forgives me.</p><p> </p><p><b>Content Warning!</b><br/>At the beginning of the second part, there is a scene with an injured animal. It is left open whether the animal survives or not. If you rather skip that, stop reading at<br/><i>"he had met Chiron only a few weeks prior."</i><br/>and jump in again at<br/><i>"Aziraphale swallowed down the lump in his throat"</i>.</p><p>A bit after that, there is also a scene describing a human suffering from anaphylactic shock (he does survive). If you want to skip that, stop reading at<br/><i>"He sped up, broke into a rare run" </i>)<br/>and jump in again at<br/><i>"Chiron drew a rattling breath and clutched at his arms"</i>.</p><p>I'll put more information about these two scenes into the end notes for those who skip them but want to know about their significance for the story.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just above our terror, the stars painted this story<br/>
in perfect silver calligraphy. And our souls, too often<br/>
abused by ignorance, covered our eyes with mercy.”<br/>
Aberjhani, I Made My Boy Out of Poetry </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>He finds it trapped between old leather tomes, towering on each side of it, keeping it from tipping over. He has been moving one of the many stacks with the intention to get a better look at something that might be an early edition of The Black Moth when his arm brushes against it and splintered wood catches on his sleeve.<br/>
He frowns as he trails his fingers along the dusty frame, wonders what a picture might be doing here, hiding amongst books. He looks at the volume in his hand, then glances back at the frame, not sure why it calls to him. Why he wishes to pull the picture out and look at its face. He has come here to expand his collection, always in search for new old texts.<br/>
His fingers are still brushing over the wood, soft skin being pricked by splinters. With a careful movement he slides the picture out from between the towers it is surrounded by. Turns it around to see.</p><p>His breath catches.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>He has taken to wandering the colourful stalls – <em>flea markets, angel, they're marvellous, you should try it</em> – in search of hidden treasures. Books that need a new home, that call for him to take them in, give them a space to rest and be treasured and healed. There are many. Some he will host for a while, let them stay until the right person comes into his shop. Most will retire with him. Few, so very few, he will gift on. <em>I don't read books, angel. – Oh really, my dear, what was that yesterday? – That was from a movie. – Of course it was</em>.<br/>
Yes, a few of them he gifts on, precious every single one of them. He hands them over with a little smile, knowing that a gleam of gold will be flaring up hidden by dark glasses. And maybe, when he is lucky, he will hear them being quoted back at him. Phrases thrown at him like a challenge. Or muttered behind a glass of wine. Or chuckled into the dark. Or whispered against his skin… And he cherishes them. Every single one of them. Drinks in the words now that he is allowed to hear them, now that he can answer in kind.</p><p>It has always been books. He has never felt the urge to stray and search the messy stalls for something else. Not until the day when his sleeve gets caught on a rough wooden frame. Not until he holds up a picture and looks at a memory.</p><p>He takes the picture home – home, it is home now, it can be home now – and hangs it above his desk. The desk that is placed opposite of the main door, the first thing one sees when entering the shop. He arranges it with care, makes sure it rests in perfect alignment and, before stepping back to admire the effect, caresses a sinuous line with his fingertips.<br/>
It clashes fabulously with the interior of the cluttered room. Brilliant lines on a dark background, sharp and radiant and dazzling – like something else. Like someone else. Oh, it would look perfect there, in <em>that</em> flat. He should gift it on. He does not want to.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The little bell above then entry jingles, a silvery sound that usually has him burrowing his face deeper into the pages in front of him, eager to avoid making whoever enters his space feel welcome. But not this time. Never when he catches the breeze of that presence just before the door opens. His home will always be welcoming for <em>that</em> presence. He hides a smile and continues to read.</p><p>"Angel, are we –"</p><p>The footsteps stop abruptly. He does not need to see to know that Crowley is looking up, staring at the picture hanging above of him. A constellation against the firmament.</p><p>"Well. That takes me back."</p><p>There is something in Crowley’s voice that has him looking up. His gaze travels over well-known features and he is not sure what he reads on them. There is that furrow between the brows that usually means the demon is trying to figure something out. To figure <em>him</em> out. There is a tension in the jaws that he does not like. It speaks of restraint - he does not want Crowley to be restrained with him anymore. And there is that tilt to the mouth that he has always been wishing to erase. He could do it now. Hold him close and kiss those lips until they are soft and smirking and parting in a gasp.<br/>
He swallows, wills those thoughts away. Stands up and takes the few steps to come up beside Crowley, turns around and to look at the picture.</p><p>"It rather does that, does it not?"</p><p>Crowley hums and for a moment he wonders if he has made a mistake. Is it the right thing to do, bringing up old stories? But the picture is beautiful and there are so very few of the two of them together. He can't find it in him to regret it. Better to venture through, he thinks. They have talk about it at some point. About some of the things that were said during their long lives. And about those that were not.</p><p>"What do you think of it?"</p><p>"It's quite pretty," Crowley answers, tilting his head a little. "Not really fitting your style."</p><p>"Hmm." It is true, of course – but how to explain. How to put into words the strange feeling it gives to him to see it here. To have those stark, radiant lines in his homey place. To have them there, out in the open, for all to see. And for those who really know who they are to understand the message.</p><p>"It was the first time you lied." Crowley's voice is low now. Almost a whisper. Aziraphale turns to look at him but he is still staring at the picture. "I think it was, at least. Not many chances to before that, we didn't meet often before Rome."</p><p><em>It was the first time you lied to me</em>. Crowley does not say. He does not need to, knows Aziraphale understands. Aziraphale who lied to the Almighty when he gave away his sword but would not lie to a demon up until that day. That day, somewhere in Rome - before the oysters, before Golgotha – when he slipped up. Got himself into trouble and for the first time had a demon helping him. A recompense, he wanted to believe at the time. A way for Crowley to make up for a wing raised against the rain. For conversation instead of the calling forth of celestial power to try and smite the audacious serpent who had slithered up to him.</p><p>His gaze travels over Crowley's face, taking in the cold, collected features. He reminds himself that they still need to talk. That there might still be things standing inbetween them. Old lies and omitted truths that linger and seep into their conversations and interactions. That are still holding the power to poison them. He does not want to risk it any longer. Not now when they finally are like this. Can finally be together. It might take them another century to clear it all, but it will be worth it. It is always worth it.</p><p>He draws a deep breath and looks up at the constellation of the Healer and the Serpent – and he remembers.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>I have walked a stair of swords,<br/>
I have worn a coat of scars.<br/>
I have vowed with hollow words,<br/>
I have lied my way to the stars<br/>
Songs of Sapphique - Catherine Fisher, Incarceron </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>He was hurrying along the dusty path, little shards of crystalline sand biting into the soles of his feet as they snuck into his sandals. No time for that now.<br/>
The small human in front of him was waving frantically, urging him on. <em>Not much time</em>, she had said. <em>Scorpio. He's gone all white in the face.</em></p><p>Aziraphale swallowed and drew up his toga from where it was trailing through the dirt. He hoped that he would be in time, that he had learnt enough by now. He had seen a few scorpion stings but they were rarely lethal to humans, although they did seem rather painful. Probably the young girl was just over-reacting. It must be so. Still, he would do whatever he could to help the man. This human who had become his teacher. As he hurried along the path of desiccated loam, he thought of how he had met Chiron only a few weeks prior. It had been a hot day then as well…</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The streets of Rome were dry and almost empty under the oppressing midday sun. A small crowd was gathered at a street corner and it caught his attention. It was most unusual for people to be congregating during this time of the day and when they did, it usually meant something of interest was about to happen.<br/>
Unsure what to expect, he approached the scene and was surprised by what he saw. A mule, lying on the ground unnaturally still, one of its legs bent in an awkward angle. He spared a surprised thought on how this might have happened, what accident had befallen then poor, fragile creature, then his attention was drawn to the two men crouching beside it. One of them looked shaken and worried, hands fluttering aimlessly over the heaving flank of the animal – the owner, Aziraphale presumed.<br/>
The other man was exuding an air of calm competence in a way Aziraphale had never felt on a mortal before. One hand was brushing along the neck of the animal, calm and gentle, while the other was prodding at the injured leg. Then he suddenly called out at someone in the crowed, demanded for rope and wooden sticks to be brought.</p><p>"If anyone can fix this, it's him."</p><p>Aziraphale heard the words muttered behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two men standing close to each other, watching the scene.</p><p>"Can't be done," the other man said. "Seen this before. Probably broken. Such a waste too, healthy animal."</p><p>"I'm telling you, if it can be fixed, he will do it. I have heard of him. Heals all sorts, mostly people but sometimes animals, too. Works wonders with horses and mules and donkeys, so they say. They don't call him Chiron for nothing."</p><p>"Heh, Greek?"</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>Aziraphale turned back towards the healer who had moved to be cradling the animal's head in his lap. He reached out, opened his awareness to the feelings of the people surrounding him, and sensed an overwhelming wave of concern and worry that almost rendered him breathless. There was the smallest flicker of hope coming from the man on the ground, jaws set firmly as he was staring down at the mule, gentle fingers trailing through the fur between its eyes. The creature seemed almost relaxed despite its helpless state and the pain it must have been in.</p><p>There was a caring love radiating from the healer with an intensity that had the eyes of his earthly corporation pricking and a lump forming in his throat. He had never felt something like this from a human, not in all the millennia he had spent amongst them. He had felt love and caring and devotion and the longing need to protect and help, but never merged like this within one soul. Never with this intensity. The desperate need to mend this creature, to see it save and whole and healthy… This creature that was not even his own. Which, yes, all the other people surrounding them were hoping to see healed because they knew how valuable a good mule was. Because the beast did not deserve its fate. And because they wished to experience in person one of the so-called miracles of this healer.<br/>
None of them really <em>cared</em>. Not about the future of this animal beyond its survival. The man sitting in the dust did so. Fervently and deeply and painfully.</p><p>Aziraphale swallowed down the lump in his throat and willed away the pricking in his eyes. He turned around and walked away, leaving behind a furnace of love and sorrow and desperate hope. He went back to his lodgings, sank down onto his bed and buried his face in his hands.<br/>
He thought of Adam and Eve. Of Noah and his family. He thought of Crawly. Thought of the last time he had met the demon, a mere few weeks ago, just in passing. Wrapped in a dark tunic and sitting beside a scribe, staring at the text taking shape on the papyrus with wide, eager eyes. He had looked as if he had wanted to absorb it, devour it, and Aziraphale had wondered what it had been that had fascinated the demon that much. The words and their meaning? The craftmanship? The clever ways humans invented to collect things, to try and preserve them for an eternity they would never be able to experience for themselves?</p><p>Crawly had looked up then, had met his gaze and there had been understanding in his eyes. Because he knew. The demon knew - understood like nobody else. Because they shared this fascination, this excitement and wonder about what quaint little things the humans would discover next.<br/>
But other than Crawly, Aziraphale never sought to learn from them. Oh, he had been collecting their texts, their tales and treatises and philosophies, ever since they had started to write them down. He had been hoarding scrolls and sheets and tablets, was stashing them away like the treasures they were, but he had never thought to approach them and learn from them.</p><p>Crawly did so, he knew. He had been catching glimpses of little trinkets the demon must have been acquiring from the humans. Playful little things cradled in hands that did not need them, that could wield occult magic and will into existence whatever he pleased. Still, Aziraphale would never forget the day when he had come across the demon at a campsite and the look of incredulous fury on his angular face as he had held up what supposedly should have been a loaf of bread but had resembled a lump of scorched wood.<br/>
A laugh had escaped Aziraphale before he had been able to stifle it and Crawly had glanced up, indignant and with something sharp in his eyes before the lines surrounding them had crinkled and the corner of his mouth had twitched.</p><p><em>Would like to see you doing better, guardian.</em> He had said and Aziraphale had waved a hand and answered that he would leave that sort of experimentation to him. And that it was <em>Principality</em>, if he would please.<br/>
<em>Might as well just call you angel and save us both the trouble</em>, the demon had replied with something warm and amused and teasing in his voice and Aziraphale had been stunned into silence although he had not been sure why.</p><p>He had asked him later, how he was able to spend that much time amongst the humans, how it was that they did not comment on his eyes.<br/>
<em>They see what they wish, angel, and don't what they rather wouldn't. All assisted by a little bit of demonic glamour. It's bothersome but can't be helped. They'll be coming up with something I can make use of one of these days, just you wait.</em></p><p>Yes, it was Crawly who went and learnt from the humans. Aziraphale kept his distance. Watched and collected their knowledge in hidden ways. It was safer like that, he could not risk giving away another flaming sword.<br/>
Until one day when he was sitting in his room, wondering about the healer Chiron and suddenly he wished to learn. Wanted to get to know this earthly craft the human gifted so freely and readily and which, if word was to be believed, could almost be perceived as a miracle. Wanted it so much that the next day, he took it upon himself to travel outside the city all the way to where the healer lived. An estate where he was teaching the children of the household while allowed to offer his cures and skills to whomever might be in need of them.</p><p>Aziraphale would be welcome to stay and learn for a while, he knew he would. He always was, when he wished it so.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>He sped up, broke into a rare run at the sight of the hunched shape lying at the edge of a field. People were surrounding it. Workers and slaves, Aziraphale had met them in passing. They raised their faces at him, fear and hope plain in their eyes.</p><p>He sunk to his knees, willing his mortal heart to beat steadily at the sight of the man – his friend. The child had been right. Chiron was pale, too pale. Blue lips open as he tried to draw rattling breaths. His eyes full of unfocused terror behind heavy lids.<br/>
Aziraphale forced the buzzing haze from his mind. Thought back, remembered. He remembered that Chiron had talked about this. There had been a woman working at the beehives once. She had been stung by one of the flitting creatures. Had been taken ill by it, had had problems breathing. She had been fine in the end – but this looked worse. So much worse.</p><p>He sat down and placed the healer's head in his lap. Unfastened his belt so that the tunic was lying loosely around him. Hoped that would help him breathe. There was more than lack of air going on here, he was sure. He felt the mortal body shiver and tense, then going slack. There was no cure for this, he knew of no cure for this. Chiron had not yet taught him a cure for this.<br/>
He swallowed, drew a wheezing breath himself and closed his eyes. The body under his hands was in uproar, straining and fighting against itself. Little specks of biting light surging through it, widening it, concentrating all of its functions on attacking a venom that had long been subdued. It did not calm down, would not calm down on its own. How could he tell it to calm down?</p><p>Along the edge of his consciousness he felt something else. Something outside of the body he had let his whole focus sink into. It was there, familiar and heavy, settling across his shoulders in a way that should have felt like a supporting weight.<br/>
<em>No</em>, he thought. <em>No. It can't be. He wanted to teach his youngest to write next week. He was proud to take along his daughter on his next round, despite the comments that there was no use in a girl becoming a healer. He was taking apart the works of Hippocrates, wondering how to advance the art of </em><em>diagnosis, how to save more lives.<br/>
</em><em>No,</em> he thought, and looked up. Looked into the faces staring at him with distraught hope that he would fix this. That he would save their beloved teacher and friend and parent.</p><p>The heaviness surrounding him grew stronger. He felt it running down his spine, causing his wings to itch and stretch in their hidden space, eager to manifest and greet the presence of divinity, of celestial power.<br/>
<em>No, not yet. It can't be his time yet.</em> He remembered smiles and laughter. Chiron and his wife, he had never thought a couple could be so happy. He remembered the feeling of love and companionship and tender care that filled every single room of the cramped lodgings the family inhabited.<br/>
And he had been part of it. Had been invited in, welcomed with open arms. Had shared their meals and their stories and their laughter. Had encouraged their dreams and aspirations with gentle inspiration and prayers for health and luck. There was so much potential, so much good still to be done. So much life to be shared.</p><p>He felt a wetness on his cheeks and brushed the back of his hand over his eyes, wiping away the useless manifestations of this cursed mortal corporation. The faces surrounding him looked stricken now, as if he had crushed and destroyed every single shred of hope they had been clinging to. He looked down, saw a glow approaching the still body in his arms, ready to embrace the beautiful soul and tear it away from its earthly confines.</p><p><em>No!</em> He thought. It was the only thing he could think.<br/>
He should have thought about gratitude and joy. About the heavenly host welcoming his friend. He should <em>not</em> have pressed his hands down on the still chest and closed his eyes. He should not have sent his power out, surrounding them, shielding them, keeping that ethereal pull away and Chiron <em>here</em>. He should not have let his awareness flow into the lifeless body. Should not have struck a spark to make the heart take up its beating once again. Brush against lungs so they would expand and constrict. Soothe the agitation as his friend came back to life.</p><p>Chiron drew a rattling breath and clutched at his arms with shaking hands. He opened his eyes and smiled.</p><p>"Aesculapius!" Someone croaked and Aziraphale froze. It felt like it was him now who was crashing back into his mortal corporation as he realised what he had done. The ethereal presence was still there, straining against the defence he had cast around himself and Chiron. It did not feel like a warm embrace any longer. It felt like gnashing teeth.</p><p>Relieved that they would not reach for Chiron any longer, not yet, he lowered his head and closed his eyes. Drew the shield back into himself and allowed divinity to overwhelm him. He had only ever known it as nurturing. As a brilliant force he could draw from, that would seep into him and grant him power. This was nothing like that. It felt like blades gashing through his earthly flesh and striking at his core. It felt like fingers of lightning grabbing his wings, pulling and twisting.<br/>
It felt like punishment.</p><p>Beyond the rushing in his ears and the haze in his mind he could hear yelling. And a roar. And shrieks.</p><p>There was another presence now. He sensed a trace of it amongst the cacophony of sounds and the sensation of cold light tearing into him. His eyes must still be closed, he could not see. There was only a white glare blazing behind his eyelids –</p><p>And then it stopped.</p><p>Everything went dark and quiet and he wondered for an instant whether he was called back to Heaven to face his reprimand - only dark was wrong, as soothing as it felt, and there was the sensation of something smooth and cool coiling around him…</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The first thing he noticed when waking up was pain. It lay in streaks across his skin, burning as he shifted.<br/>
He realised that he was lying on his side, nestled onto something soft. Had he not been sitting in the dirt beside a field just now? He groaned an opened his eyes, blinking into the dim half-light and taking in a clean, white wall with a table and a rickety chair in front of it.<br/>
Where was he?</p><p>"Back with the awake and conscious?"</p><p>He groaned once more and closed his eyes again. He knew <em>that</em> voice. Should have picked up on the presence right away. He must be more drained that he had expected.</p><p>"What are you doing here?"</p><p>"In my own lodgings, you mean?"</p><p>His eyes flew open and he moved to sit up. It sent his head spinning and pain flaring over his skin. He clenched his teeth, stifled another groan, squeezed his eyes shut and reached out to steady himself against the dizziness that washed over him. At least he assumed this was dizziness. It felt pretty much like the humans described dizziness.<br/>
His hand came to land on something warm and firm. He frowned and then felt a movement close by, the dip of the mattress he was slumped on. <em>Bed</em>, he thought distractedly, <em>I must be in Crawly's bed</em>. An arm embraced his waist, steadying him. Then he felt Crawly carefully taking hold of his ankles to place his feet on the ground. First one, then the other.<br/>
He pressed them down against the sturdy floor as if he could root himself, as if he could draw up its solidity and spread it along his limbs. Make them staunch and strong. The wood felt rough against the bare skin of his soles.<br/>
Bare…<br/>
He tried opening his eyes again, slowly this time, and looked down at himself.<br/>
Well. There was that.</p><p>"Did you disrobe me?" He aimed for disgruntled but had to admit to himself that he mostly sounded tired.</p><p>Something was placed on his knees. A pile of white cloth marred with long, crimson streaks. His toga, stained with blood despite him having worn a tunic under it.</p><p>"You did not need that on you while your wounds were healing."</p><p>"I suppose not." He turned to finally look at Crawly.</p><p>The demon was sitting beside him on the narrow bed. The hand on Aziraphale's waist had moved to clutch his left shoulder, keeping him upright. Crawly's face looked calm, almost closed off.</p><p>"What happened? How long have I been here?"</p><p>Crawly's lips pursed, his fingers tightening a fraction.</p><p>"Are you steady? Can you sit?"</p><p>"Yes, of course. But – "</p><p>The demon got up and went towards the foot end of the bed. Aziraphale, slowly, turned his head to follow his movements. There was a small table in a dark corner, decked with plates of fruit and bread and two jugs. Crawly picked up one of them along with a cup, then came to sit beside him again. He poured what Aziraphale assumed must be water into the cup and placed the jug on the floor.</p><p>"Drink." He handed him the cup.</p><p>"You know we don't need to –"</p><p>"Drink. It will do you good."</p><p>Aziraphale sighed and took a sip. It felt heavenly. It also had him noticing the lingering taste of blood on his tongue. Too tired to care about decorum he filled his mouth with water, gurgled and swallowed it all down. When he looked back at Crawly, the demon had a slight smile on his face.</p><p>"Better?"</p><p>"Much." He took another sip, this time relishing the pleasure of the blessedly cool liquid running down his throat.<br/>
"These corporations are such a bother."</p><p>"They're not all bad." And finally the smile seemed to reach Crawly's eyes, even if just for an instant. A short flash of that infectious humour he had grown accustomed to.</p><p>"However," Crawly continued in a more serious tone and with a glance at his naked torso, "yours has been put through the wringer, I'd say."</p><p>He frowned and looked down at himself once more, this time paying attention to his chest. Angry, red lines were traversing his smooth skin in a way that would imply some rather ostentatious scarring on a normal human body. He pursed his lips and waved a hand at it. Nothing happened.</p><p>"Ah drat," he sighed. "I guess my back is not looking any better?"</p><p>"Worse, actually." Crawly replied and bent do look behind him with a little cringe. "Not pretty. It's healing though."</p><p>"As I would expect." He took another sip of water. It really felt wonderfully invigorating despite its needlessness.</p><p>"Yeah, might take a while though. It being brought on by celestial energy and all that."</p><p>"Well, if that's the worst I'll have to bear for that escapade." Which should not be the case. It should absolutely not be the case. He had actively and openly interfered with Heaven collecting a soul. Aziraphale furrowed his brow.<br/>
"Which brings us back to the question of what has happened and why am I <em>here</em>?"</p><p>Crawly squirmed and Aziraphale's frown deepened. The demon stood up, strolled over to the table to fetch two plates and place them on the mattress between them. Aziraphale did not look at the food. He stared at the demon who tore off a piece of bread, rolled it between his fingers then stuffed it into his mouth, chewing eagerly.</p><p>" 's good. You should try some."</p><p>" Crawly…"</p><p>The demon sighed and shuffled backwards until he was leaning against the wall behind the bed. He snapped his fingers and a cup materialised in his hand. Judging from the heavy scent of honey and spices, it was most definitely not filled with water.</p><p>"Three days. You were out cold for three days."</p><p><em>Three days</em>… He felt himself staring blindly at nothing and blinked. Reached for a grape on the plate beside him with a shaking hand.</p><p>"I thought it best to just let you rest. The wounds on your chest were closed by the end of the first day. Those on your back… Some of them are still a bit raw, but they shouldn't tear anymore. Can you twist?"</p><p>"What?" Aziraphale asked around the grape in his mouth.</p><p>"Twist." Crawly performed a wriggly movement with his upper body that Aziraphale was quite sure should not be possible for someone wearing a human-like corporation. Feeling too stunned by it all, he made to copy it as best as he could while Crawly's gaze was running up and down his back.</p><p>"Yep. Looks good. It's probably going to sting a while longer but healed enough for you to move about."</p><p>"Ah, yes," Aziraphale replied, still feeling dazed. Why was he feeling more dazed now than when he had woken up? There was a weird sort of humming sensation in his head and light flickering in front of his eyes. Something was fluttering in his chest, beating against his ribcage.</p><p>"Here." Crawly was pushing the cup he had miracled up into his hands. Somewhen he must have put down his own. When had that happened?<br/>
He looked at the demon, met his sombre amber eyes.</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Thought you might want something a bit stronger than water."</p><p>Aziraphale took a sip of the biting, sweet drink. He raised an eyebrow at the demon who grimaced. Crawly's whole body seemed to heave with a sigh as he leaned the back of his head against the wall behind them.</p><p>"You've been learning from him. The healer…"</p><p>"Chiron."</p><p>"Yes, him."</p><p>"How do you know?"</p><p>Crawly glanced at him. Unimpressed. "I have been around, you know."</p><p>"Of course." Aziraphale had been aware of the demonic presence in Rome. Had felt it weaving through the city, a brush against his grace, a trickle down his spine. "So…"</p><p>"It's the first time you've got close to them. The first time you've done something for them since –"</p><p>"Yes, yes. We know of that," he snapped. He did not need reminding of <em>that</em>. He had got away with it back then. Still was not sure how he was walking the Earth freely after lying to the Almighty. It should not have happened again. Heaven did not grant second chances.</p><p>"How is it that I'm here?"<br/>
How is it that I'm not up there, giving answer to Her. Or the very least Gabriel. He shuddered. He did not want to think of Gabriel.</p><p>"It was kind what you did. Kind and compassionate. You shouldn't be punished for being kind. Isn't that what you're supposed to be?"</p><p>Something tightened uncomfortably in Aziraphale's chest. "Both of us know that's not how it works…"</p><p>"No, it's not." Crawly moved. Turned so he was able to look at him now, to look directly into his eyes. "But it should be. And you should not be punished for what you did."</p><p>"We are not allowed to interfere –"</p><p>"Sod not interfering!"</p><p>Crawly jumped off the bed. The plates between them clattered to the floor, one of them breaking into pieces. He looked up at the demon who was standing in front of him, hovering above him tense and terse with something wild in his eyes.</p><p>"What have you done?"</p><p>Crawly ground his teeth and glared at him for a moment before he answered.</p><p>"I've taken you away from there. Spread about enough infernal power that even upstairs should have picked up on it. And then I've sent a report to base office. Told them I did my best to intercept the collection of a particularly powerful soul. That an angel tried to thwart me and in our struggle the soul found its way back into its body. A loss for both sides."</p><p>"You should not have done that." The strange feeling in his chest grew stronger. It felt warm and jittery and terrifying. "You should <em>not</em> have done that."</p><p>Crawly drew himself up. <em>He is tall</em>, he thought as he looked up at Crawly towering above him, looking down at him still sitting on the bed, <em>I've never realised how tall he really is</em>.<br/>
Aziraphale did not appreciate people looking down at him. The unpleasant feeling of being watched from above. Judged from a distance. This was different though. He was not sure why, but it was different. It did not feel like judgment. Or distain. Or pity even.<br/>
He suddenly realised that he was still bare. Bare and sitting in the private room of his enemy, sharing drink and food with him. He swallowed and stood up. Snapped his fingers to manifest a tunic of immaculate white wool to cover himself.</p><p>"I have to leave," he said as he moved daintily around the broken plate on the floor. Crawly took a step back, allowing him to pass. He stopped when he reached the door, staring at the hand he had raised open it. It was shaking.</p><p>"Never do that again."</p><p>"Aziraphale."</p><p>"No!" He spun around. "<em>Never!</em> You can't! We can't do such things. We can't interfere, not like this. Not with them and not with us. Certainly not with us! It does not work like this. It <em>can't</em> work like this."</p><p>He realised that he was breathless. That his words had begun to stumble over each other. Crawly was looking at him, completely motionless. <em>Like a statue</em>. <em>Cast in marble and draped in fine cloth.</em> The demon stood perfectly still, the only thing alive were his eyes.</p><p>"It does not work like this," Aziraphale repeated with a voice that sounded strangled in his own ears. "I don't need your help. I don't <em>want</em> your help. You're a demon. You're here to do evil. You shall not trick me. I don't want to see you around."</p><p>He left. Closed the door and hurried down the narrow hallway. For a moment he wondered whether he was imagining the sound of pottery being smashed into shards.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Heaven, envious of our joys, is waxen pale;<br/>
And when we whisper, then the stars fall down<br/>
To be partakers of our honey talk.<br/>
Christopher Marlowe, Dido, Queen of Carthage</em>
</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>"They made of us a constellation," Crowley says, still looking up at the picture.</p><p>"So they did," Aziraphale agrees. "You did have to appear as a giant serpent after all."</p><p>Crowley chuckles and turns to look at him. The tension that has taken hold of him at the sight of the picture seems to dissipate.</p><p>"I keep telling you. If you gotta do something – "</p><p>"- do it with style. Yes, yes, I know."</p><p>He smiles at Crowley, taking in the warmth of those stunning eyes. Pouts a bit, just to himself, when the demon looks back at the painting.</p><p>"Besides, I thought it safer. Had still a few tasks to complete in my human form. Couldn't risk being recognised."</p><p>Aziraphale nods in understanding. They both were incredibly foolish that day. Looking back now, he is amazed at what he did. He does not like to regret it. Chiron lived on in joy and accomplishment and died of old age, just as Aziraphale had hoped he would. He has never regretted saving his life. He has regretted the fear that action has brought into his heart. He regrets the way that fear has made him act towards the one being he has always felt the closest to. How it would take the almost-end of the world to finally feel free.</p><p>"So, what is this then?" Crowley asks, waving a hand at the picture, and then he is smiling at him.</p><p><em>How does he know?</em> Aziraphale wonders. <em>How does he always know?</em> He steps closer, lifts a hand to brush his fingertips against a sharp cheekbone.</p><p>"An apology."</p><p>Crowley frowns. "You have nothing to apologise for."</p><p>"Oh, but I do."</p><p>"No." Crowley catches his wrist. "You don't. I always understood. Always knew. I've been there too."</p><p>"Still…" He swallows, folds his hand into a fist, feels the pressure of the gentle grip around his wrist. "Some of the things I've said."</p><p>"We both said things." Crowley lowers their hands. Lets him go. "Have both done things. It's 6000 years, Aziraphale. There's bound to be a mess now and then. But we always understood each other – I think."</p><p>"So we did. We do." He says and smiles at him.</p><p>"So, what is this? You want this here, in your shop. Want it up there. I can feel it on you. I'm still able to sense that sort of thing, you know that."</p><p>He bites his bottom lip and wrings his hands. <em>Old habits</em>, he thinks wryly.</p><p>"If you consider an apology unnecessary, it can be a thank you."</p><p>Crowley raises an eyebrow at him. "You don't need to say thank you, either."</p><p>"But I want to," he says and this time it is him who takes Crowley's wrist. Lifts the beautiful, elegant hand to his lips and breathes a kiss against its palm. "Thank you for helping me back then." He steps closer, winds his other arm around the narrow waist. Leans up to press a kiss against the long neck. "Thank you for all the times you've helped me." He glances at that lovely, lovely mouth. Moves even closer. "Thank you for…"</p><p>"Aziraphale." Crowley grinds out and Aziraphale stops to look into his eyes. Crowley's hand is in his hair now. Tight.</p><p>"You do not have to thank me."</p><p>"I know. But I wanted to say it. And it's not…" He takes a deep breath, sucks in a trace of Crowley's scent along with air that seems strangely stifling. Their close proximity does not help getting his thoughts sorted properly. He can feel their body heat starting to mingle, feels Crowley's strong fingers in his hair. If he tilts his head just so, there will be a pull…<br/>
This is important, he berates himself. This is important and sometimes words are necessary. Some things should be said out loud.</p><p>"Aziraphale…"</p><p>"It is a mark of presence," he rasps and watches as Crowley's eyes widen. <em>Burning amber, like molten gold</em>, he thinks and he <em>wants</em> him. Wants him fiercely now that they can do this. Now that they finally made space for each other, have chosen each other. But this is important…</p><p>"A symbol of us together. Of you and me. You here, in my space, in my life. Just like my books in your – "</p><p>The rest of his words are dying in a kiss.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>He takes them to his bed. It is usually Crowley who does this, who weaves through the molecules of reality and has them accommodating his will. Heaven has always looked down on this sternly, is not approving of miracles which influence the workings of time and space – Heaven, if they are still bothering to watch, may as well bugger off.<br/>
He spares a thought for his sheets and replaces them with an expanse of dark silk. Crowley grins as he splays a hand against the smooth, black fabric.</p><p>"A mark of presence, you say?"</p><p>Yes, Aziraphale thinks as he draws him close, winds his hands into soft hair and pulls him into a kiss. Yes, he hums into the eager mouth and lets himself sink down onto the soft mattress. Crowley pushes himself up, hovers above him, looks at him as if he has cracked open a riddle. Has captured a secret. Something that Aziraphale has not known about himself.<br/>
He feels fingertips brushing along his throat until they come to rest against his bowtie.</p><p>"Yes," Aziraphale sighs and closes his eyes. Tilts his head back and smiles at the sharp intake of breath that cuts through the strange stillness of the room.<br/>
There is the faint prick of a nail against his trachea – too long, he thinks, longer than usual – before it trails down the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat, disintegrating the superfluous earthly material in its wake.</p><p>"You better send that somewhere proper or we'll be having words."</p><p>He feels the amused chuckle more than he hears it and then there are lips against the soft curve of his shoulder. He longs to be closer, wants to <em>feel</em>. He draws his hands along Crowley's sides and up his back, tugging at his shirt. Confound this, he decides, and wills it away. Let Crowley try to find it later. The thought makes him smirk.</p><p>"Do I want to know where that ended up?" Crowley murmurs against the tender skin behind his ear and he shivers.</p><p>"Not like you to be invested in clothing when it comes to this," he huffs, his voice breathless.</p><p>"Oh, I'm very invested in clothing…"</p><p>He feels fingers running along his thighs and suddenly they are against naked skin, digging into flesh. He draws his legs up, makes room for Crowley between them. Reaches for those frustratingly tight trousers. Way too tight to get a proper grip on. <em>One day</em>, he thinks as he claws at them anyway, has them vanish so he can finally, <em>finally</em> touch the taut, smooth muscles underneath. <em>One day I'll have him all in loose cloth. Like he was back then. A luxury of fine fabric wrapped around him that I can bury my fingers in. Pull it tight around him. Peel it off layer by layer by…</em></p><p>He moans and his hips buck as a hand reaches down between them. Takes hold of him.</p><p><em>Why have we waited for so long</em>, he wonders. <em>We could have been doing this for centuries</em>…</p><p>And then all thoughts of the past leave him. There is only here and now and <em>this</em>.<br/>
Memory is a strange thing. It selects what is to be significant, chooses what to keep treasured. What it shall save.<br/>
Sometimes, it collects in fractions.</p><p>He remembers a firm grip and roaming hands. Lips and mouths and teeth. Hot breath on shivering skin.<br/>
He remembers long fingers clenched in his hair and sharp, piercing fangs. He remembers digging his own nails into a sinuous back, drawing blood, infusing the occult presence above him with ethereal power as Crowley bears down on him. Remembers him crying out. Remembers the slide of claws edged like blades of shattered glass.<br/>
He remembers leaving marks.<br/>
He remembers pain and want and a building pressure, a desperation that has them grabbling and pulling and tearing and pushing whimpering breaths into each other's mouths. Remembers heat and strength. Hard and deep and deliriously perfect, filling him with a frantic need for again and again and <em>more</em>.<br/>
He remembers a searing incandescence neither divine nor infernal but very much of their own. A frenzied, earthly rush that has them gasping and shaking and clutching at each other.</p><p>When their breaths have evened out and their skin has cooled, they lie entwined. His head is resting above Crowley's heart as the demon slumbers, a gentle rise and fall of chest, soothing like a rolling wave. He draws in the feelings that are lingering heavily in the room, locks them up inside his own chest. Takes a moment to remember Chiron. Thinks of emotions. Thinks of love - the kind of love that is consuming and invigorating. The kind that can be painful and desperate and vicious and blindingly beautiful. The kind that used to frighten him. That had him thinking it would leave his wings singed black were he to allow it for himself.<br/>
He pulls Crowley closer, tightens his arms around him. Breaths a silent vow into their space. A vow to himself. To never lie to himself again.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Re: scene with injured animal<br/>Aziraphale observes Chiron treating an injured mule and is amazed by the human's huge amount of love and compassion extending to all creatures - and by the depth of Chiron's pain at the thought that the mule might not recover. He has never felt such strong and limitless emotions before and it equally fascinates and unsettles him.</p><p>Re: anaphylactic shock<br/>Chiron suffers from an intense allergic reaction to a scorpion sting and would have died had Aziraphale not intervened with a miracle. For Aziraphale it's the first time since Eden that, in a moment of compassion for Chiron and his family, he goes openly against heavenly orders. He knows that Heaven is ready to collect Chiron's soul but intercepts them, despite being well aware that he is not meant to interfere with humans dying.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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